The Tenebrous Tales
by sleep tight my gun
Summary: Pre-Series: While John is off hunting, the boys are left to fend in a shady motel. Surrounded by the ruins of abandoned farms, rural towns and an abundance of tales about things that go bump in the night, they soon come to realize there's more than just corn in Indiana.
1. Cry, Baby, Cry

**This is my first SPN fic. I've only just started S3, so I'm still new to the Winchester boys.**

**I may end up changing the rating later depending on where this ends up, but for now, T for mild language and some glossed over violence.  
I don't intend for their to be any pairings in this, either. But we'll see.**

**Reviews are appreciated~!**

* * *

As his father's truck peeled out of the parking lot, Dean was left alone in the doorway of yet another cheap motel. Even long after the truck was out of sight he remained fixated on the vast expanse of dusty old road. With a heavy sign he re-entered his temporary home, stepping over the thick line of rock salt without second thought. The front door so poorly fit it's frame that the boundary hadn't been broken, not even grazed.  
"Sammy," he called out, his voice a husky bark.  
Sam poked his head out of the bathroom, his damp hair dripping water onto bare shoulders. "Dean." He brought his toothbrush to his mouth, chewing the frayed bristles.  
"Dad's gone. One of his contacts called in a lead on some demon-"  
"Huh," Sam said with raised brows.  
"Yeah. Said to give him a couple weeks."  
Sam rolled his eyes and pointed the toothbrush at his older brother, "You know he'll be gone at least three. Now, how much cash did he leave this time?" Dean shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans, remaining silent. "Dean. How much money did he leave?"  
Dean flipped out his pockets, the lining stark white against the dark wash denim, and Sam's eyes grew narrow at how empty they were.  
"Dean!" Sam slammed open the door, mindful of the towel wrapped around his waist as he stepped out of the bathroom. "Are you joking? I hope to God you're joking right now."  
"Relax, Sammy. We passed a bar with weekly poker tourneys. Every Wednesday. I'll sweep the bastards and we'll be fine, okay? Relax."  
"You," Sam sighed and ran his free hand through his hair, "you better figure something out. If I starve, that's on you."  
Dean laughed and kicked off his shoes before collapsing on the bed. "I've got a feeling that's the last of our worries. And Christ, put on some pants. You're making me uncomfortable." He grinned at the angry flush rising in Sam's face.  
"Whatever. Fix this." Sam slammed the bathroom door after himself.

* * *

Sam sat bent over the poor excuse for a desk squeezed into the back corner of the motel room. He'd been silent - reading - for longer than Dean was comfortable with. When Sammy was that quite for that long, he'd typically found something not so good. And, as if cued by the eyes staring at his back, Sam stood and carried his laptop toward his brother.  
"Found something to pass the time. Check it out." He set the computer in Dean's lap, who immediately glanced up at him with incredulous eyes. One look at the screen's contents had nearly been enough to make Dean laugh. The poorly executed site, complete with an MS Paint banner and 8-bit soundtrack, screamed unreliability.  
"Oh, come on. Really? How often is crap like this legit?"  
Sam sat on the edge of the mattress and hovered one fingertip near the bottom of the screen, "Just look at it. Humor me."  
"Yeah, sure." Dean shooed away his brother's hand and followed the link to a page bordered with low-res flames. "Devas. You think there's a Deva here? In Indiana?" He spread one hand across his forehead, thumb and forefinger massaging his temples, as he gave a half-hearted chuckle. "And you're supposed to be the smart one."  
"Yeah, well," Sam paused, a grin plastered on his face, "I think it's worth seeing. Now read this one." He switched to the next tab, an article from some podunk newspaper replacing the dancing flames and midi track.  
Dean skimmed the article, eyes darting lazily across the screen. He shut the laptop and returned it to Sam. "So things are burning. Cool. It's the Midwest in the middle of a drought, of course things are burning."  
"But-"  
"No 'but's. How often to Buddhist deities burn crops in parts of the world that tend to have zero Buddhists?"  
Sam sighed, "I still say there's something going on. That city has something hidden."  
"What city doesn't?" A smirk raised one corner of Dean's mouth.

* * *

The Impala sped down a dark road better left abandoned, nothing but trees and the occasional field growing into the shoulder. Dean sat lazily behind the wheel, one hand on the wheel and the other flipping through radio stations. With a sigh he settled on a Top 40 station, his face twisted in distaste. "Music down here sucks. The Black Album should be up here somewhere."  
Sam dug through the glove box, eventually finding the cassette in question. A smile grew on Dean's face as the intro to Enter Sandman began; he tapped his fingers on the wheel in time with the all too familiar riff. Sam turned toward his window, leaning his forehead against the cool glass.  
"Come on, Sammy, taaaake my haaaaand." Dean gave his brother a loving punch to the arm, who retaliated with a clumsy backhand.  
They neared a small bridge, barely the length of the Impala and not much wider, when the radio snapped, crackled, popped, and died. Dean slowed the car, putting her in park just over the bridge. He button mashed everything from power to volume, each push getting gradually more aggressive with mumbled cursing beneath his breath. Sam sat up and turned toward his brother, watching the typically composed man start to break over a cassette.  
"Stop." More button mashing. "Dean." Eject-eject-eject-damn it-eject. "Dean!" Sam grabbed his brother's wrist and pulled his hand away from the radio. Dean stared at him, his face blank, and jerked out of Sam's grasp. A gust of wind blew through the trees surrounding them, breaking off a stick and dropping it on the Impala's hood.  
"The damn thing ate my tape and now trees are attacking my car. You were right, Sammy. This town is hiding-" A vaguely human cry sounded outside, small and high-pitched.  
"Shh." Sam opened his door slowly until it rested against the guard rail, giving him barely enough room to squeeze out of his seat. He left the door ajar and walked to the front of the car, standing in the light of the high beams. The cry sounded again, slightly louder, as Dean followed his brother's example.  
"What is it?" Dean left one hand on the door handle, the other coming to rest on the Impala's roof.  
"Didn't you hear it? It sounded like-"  
Louder yet, a tiny wail reached their ears. Sam's head darted from side to side, searching for anything that would produce such a noise. Dean turned, looking over his shoulder and past the guard rail. Water trickled slowly beneath them. He took a step toward the rail and his eyes roamed the creek banks, widening upon seeing the faint silhouette of... something... someone?... nestled in the rocks.  
"Sammy, in the car." Dean hurried to slide behind the wheel, his door nearly shut by the time Sam turned toward him. "In the car!" As soon as his brother was inside, the passenger door still open, Dean threw the car in reverse and punched the gas. The bridge was out of sight long before he slowed enough to turn the car around.  
Sam released his white-knuckled grip on his knees and turned to Dean with wide eyes. He opened his mouth to speak and immediately closed it again.  
"I don't know, man. I gotta think." Dean's eyes hadn't left the road.  
Sam turned in his seat, staring intently out the back windshield. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he hoped he wouldn't see it. If it had jarred Dean like that, he didn't want to know. Didn't want to even imagine.

* * *

Back at the motel Dean checked the rock salt boundaries as Sam sat on the edge of the bed, watching his brother go from door to windows to air vents.  
"What was that back there?" Sam was the first to speak since Dean had screamed for him to get in the Impala.  
Dean readjusted the final boundary, the small window above the bathtub, and sat beside his brother. He tugged the hair at his temples, thumbs pressed against his cheeks. "Crybaby Bridge."  
Sam nearly laughed, his grin fading upon seeing Dean's scowl. "That's it? Since when are those dangerous? They're everywhere."  
"Kids playing pranks on their friends are everywhere. Bodies of children under bridges aren't."  
They sat in silence, seconds passing into minutes before Dean gave his brother a patronly cuff on the shoulder, "We'd be lucky if it was just a corpse. We'll head out tomorrow, salt and burn the body."  
"That's it?"  
"That's it. Get some sleep, Sammy."

Dean sat at the desk, a mostly crossed out list of spirits written on a napkin to his right. His face was nearly pressed against the screen of the laptop as he read, scrolling through page after page of unformatted black text. Behind him Sam was fast asleep, curled up at the headboard. Dean looked over this shoulder, seeing the faint rise and fall of blankets, before messily circling a word toward the bottom of the list and grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. He crept outside, taking a moment to lock the door behind him, and jogged to his car. Grabbing a flask of holy water, an iron cross and a shotgun loaded with rock salt from the trunk, Dean slid behind the wheel. The Impala screamed as it tore out of the parking lot.  
Dean parked as far onto the shoulder as possible, the Impala still more than halfway in the road. With the shotgun slung over his shoulder he walked toward the bridge, cutting through the sparse saplings and tall grass beside the road. The ground began to dip beneath him and, leaning back for balance, he quickly found himself at the creek. No water ran through it, the bed dusty and cracked. The body from his first encounter had disappeared, no trace left on the rocks jutting from the dried mud. He spun a half circle and pulled a flashlight from his jacket, aiming it into the woods. Nothing but trees. He shook his head and laughed as he started back up toward the road.  
Using the guard rail, Dean pulled himself up the last few feet of the incline. His flashlight flickered out, the small sizzle from the filament snapping oddly loud in the otherwise silent night air, and he smacked it against his thigh a couple times before shoving it back into his jacket. "This bridge sucks."  
With the shotgun safely nestled back in the trunk of his car, Dean settled into the driver's seat and sighed. He loosely gripped the steering wheel, took a breath, and turned the key. The bridge and surrounding trees were instantly lit up, high beams cutting through the shadows. He checked his mirrors before looking straight ahead, straight at the body from earlier. Now, illuminated by the bright lights, Dean could see the child for what it was. It's black eyes pierced him, instilling the vague fear he hid so well.  
"Oh Hell no," Dean said with gravel in his voice, ripping through the words as if they were tissue paper. For the second time that night he threw the Impala in reserve and pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

* * *

Sam was awake, sitting up in bed with tired eyes, when Dean ran back into their room. He watched as his brother, heedless of the sound he was making, slammed the door and locked it in a single motion. He nudged the salt back into place with his foot, the hem of his jeans having nearly broken the barrier, and spun around to lean his back against the thin wood.  
"Hey, Sammy." He slid out of his jacket, tossing it over the back of a nearby chair, and walked over to the desk. He went to reach for the napkin he'd been writing on, but it was no longer there.  
Sam cleared his throat and waved the napkin in the air, "Looking for this?"  
Dean turned and shrugged, as nonchalant as one could possibly get.  
"You think it's a," Sam paused to glance at the circle named, "an Acheri. We're not around mountains, Dean."  
"It's not an Acheri. But there are enough hills around her that it could have been."  
"Hills be damned, they're still not- what do you mean? It isn't?"  
Dean spun the rigid desk chair to face his brother and took a seat, leaning it back on two legs. "Nope."  
Sam leaned forward, eyes squinted inquisitively, "Then what is it?"  
"No clue." Dean rocked the chair back and forth, hands tightly gripping the edge of the desk behind him. He was nearly wearing a smile, though only on his lips. His eyes were dark, void of anything.  
"You know something, I can tell. What did you see out there?"  
"Just some creepy little bastard standing in the middle of the road. Nothing major. I'll figure something out." Dean leaned forward, the front legs of the chair slamming onto the floor with a dull crack, and walked toward the dresser. He pulled out a pair of jersey pajama bottoms, an old pair of Sam's that had grown too short for the younger boy, and changed with his back to the bed. "I'm serious this time; get some sleep, Sammy."  
Dean turned around just in time to catch his little brother mid-eye roll. He grinned, fell onto the couch, and tossed one of the throw pillows at his brother's head. "Sleep, now."

* * *

By the time Dean woke up, Sam had already dove head first into research. He was seated on the bed, legs crossed beneath him, scrolling pages with one hand and eating dry cereal with the other. He glanced up from the screen upon hearing the couch creak, smiling at his brother with chipmunk cheeks full of Cheerios.  
"Found something. Apparently," Sam hardly had to glance back at the screen, "a mother abandoned her child beneath that bridge a couple years ago. Suzanne Kellum, 24, got pregnant out of wedlock. Didn't know who the father was, didn't care to find out. When she has the kid, he comes out kind looking pretty abnormal. The doctor's ran tests, couldn't figure it out." Dean stood, twisting at the waist until his back zipper-popped, and sat beside his little brother. "Well, the kid goes missing. Suzanne said he passed in his sleep, but no one believed her. Word around town is that she drowned the kid in that creek. There's a river about a quarter mile down the road, but the bridge is closed, so no one drives it anymore. It doesn't go anywhere. Perfect place to commit murder, they say."  
Dean stared at the screen, chewing his bottom lip. "What did it mean, "abnormal"?"  
"Oh," Sam's grin grew larger as he clicked through his tabs, stopping on a picture of a young woman holding a doe-eyed baby boy. His eyes were too large for his head, bulging out beneath long, dark eyelashes. He hardly had a jaw line, his chin receded well past his mouth. Both brothers studied the image, their heads nearly touching. "Could just be a normal baby."  
"One damn ugly baby," Dean said, his brows and upper lip raised in a slight sneer. "But this kid was, you know, a kid. Like, five."  
Sam frowned and began his search anew, pulling up the town's public records once more. Dean cuffed his brother's shoulder in a friendly enough manner before standing, "Let me know if you find anything else."  
"Going somewhere?" Sam didn't look up from the screen.  
"Diner."  
"Dean, you know we don't-"  
"Old folks hang out at diners. If anyone knows anything, it'll be them. I'll bring you coffee."  
Sam waved his hand at shoulder level, a signal of dismissal if Dean had ever seen one. The older brother made quick work of changing back into his usual jeans and t-shirt before heading out the door, grabbing his jacket on the way.

* * *

Dean looked around the nearly deserted diner, twirling a pen in one hand and holding his coffee with the other. A small steno pad lay on the table, flipped to a blank page. His waitress neared with a fresh pot of brew in her hand and he nodded toward his mug. She was older, the matronly type that likely had a handful of grandbabies back home, with her hair dyed an unnaturally bright auburn. She looked like a woman who would spend her days off at the beauty parlor, gossiping with the other aging ladies over well-read magazines.  
"Decide on something for breakfast?" Her voice was kind, one that had likely gotten her some nice tips through the years.  
"Not yet- actually," a glance at her name badge, "Maureen, think you could help me out real quick?" She quirked a thinly penciled eyebrow. "You see, I was hoping there'd be some more folks around. Don't want to keep you busy long." Dean gave his most winning smile, one that had brought more than a few women around in the past, Maureen sat the coffee pot on the table, intrigued. "I'm writing a book of ghost stories. Haunted houses, creepy objects, the like. All fabricated, of course. But I heard about a bridge here in town that's got some local legend attached and I'd love to learn more about it. Would you mind?"  
Maureen glanced around the diner, the other patrons busied in quiet conversation or the morning paper. She took the seat across from Dean and leaned forward, arms crossed on the tabletop. He poised his pen to jot down notes. "Lot of folk say Suzanne done threw her baby over that bridge. But she ain't no killer. She loved that boy but he weren't right; passed right in his sleep, God bless his soul. But some of us, we been 'round long enough to know for honest about that bridge." She took another glance around the restaurant before leaning toward Dean even further. "When I was a girl, no taller than this here table, some out-of-towner got herself pregnant and couldn't tell a soul who that baby belonged to. Poor thing didn't know herself. But her baby girl, she was mighty odd. Sucked that woman dry, my ma used to say. One day, few years later, we hear tell she left that little girl on the creek bed 'fore hangin' herself on the old train bridge 'bout quarter mile down the road. There weren't no water in that creek, though, not but a trickle. But that girl, she was odd. Five years old and didn't do no walkin'." Maureen met Dean's eyes for a brief moment, hers filled with a decades old sadness, before standing. "Ain't no more to tell. Good luck with your book." She smiled, though whether it was genuine or a well-practiced fake was up for debate.  
"Thank you, Maureen." He drained his mug, left a five dollar bill on the table, and exited the diner with a shorthand account of her tale on the steno pad.

* * *

Sam looked up from his research when the door opened, disappointed but not surprised to see Dean had forgotten the promised cup of coffee. His older brother had come back with an unnaturally large grin on his face, however. "Any luck?"  
"Looks like Suzy wasn't the only chick to throw a baby off the bridge." He threw the steno pad at Sam and set aside his jacket before falling onto the couch, legs stretched out across the cushions.  
"Your handwriting is atrocious," Sam said after flipping to the last written page. He sped through the quickly scrawled lines. He shut the notebook when finished. "Any idea what it means?"  
"Between what she said, and what I saw... I dunno, Sammy. It's looking pretty nasty." Sam looked at him with expectant eyes and Dean elaborated. "Black-eyed demon."  
Sam's grip on the notebook tightened, bending the pliant paper in half. "When were you going to mention it had black eyes!"  
"Guess it slipped my mind. Now, you think we're dealing with a possession or what?"  
"Sounds more like a lost soul than a demon. You're sure about the eyes?"  
"Stared her dead in the face." Dean said with a chuckle."  
"Ha. I'm serious, Dean."  
"Yeah, I'm sure."  
"Then we exorcise it. Salt and burn the host if she doesn't make it."  
"The girl's been dead for over 40 years, if Maureen's as old as I think."  
"Then there's our plan."  
Dean stood and made his way to the mini-fridge, pulling out a bottle of cheap beer. He took a long swig before tilting the bottle in Sam's direction, "See if you can't figure out exactly what we're dealing with. There's gotta be something on demonic kids in that thing."  
Sam rolled his eyes and went back to his research, searching through every credible resource he could think of before stooping to the less reliable ones. The sky had begun to lose light when he finally looked up from the laptop, finding Dean passed out on the couch with an empty bottle in hand.  
"Dean." No response, so Sam threw a pillow at him, hitting his brother square in the face. "Dean, wake up."  
"Screw you, Sammy," Dean grumbled as he sat up and rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes. "What?"  
"Narrowed it down to two things, but one is pretty ridiculous." Sam stole a look at his brother before continuing, "Most likely, a young demon that found and possessed the body. Or," he looked up again, eyes meeting Dean's, "I've seen a few things on, uh, the anti-Christ?"  
Dean burst out laughing, chin resting on one shoulder. He couldn't string together a single sentence. A dark flush crept across Sam's face, "I said it was pretty ridiculous..."

Dean snapped his cell phone shut, pocketing it before returning his attention to his little brother. He ran a hand across his mouth, thumb wrapped under his chin. "Dad wasn't much help. Says the anti-Christ stuff is a load of crap and only crossroads demons, which this thing isn't, are tied to a specific locations."  
"What else?" Sam paced the room, tapping the steno pad against an open palm.  
"Said to keep our noses clean because it's, quote, too damn early to stir up trouble, unquote. Said he'll handle it once he gets back."  
"Right."  
The siblings exchanged a sly glance before leaving the motel, jumping in the Impala and heading straight for the bridge. John Winchester may have known a lot about hunting, but he still had a thing or two to learn about his sons.


	2. The Devil's in the Details

Sam came to face down on the bank of the creek, the morning sun casting mosaic shadows along the ground. With his first breath dust coated his throat and he rolled onto his side, coughing. He looked around for his brother, but Dean wasn't in sight. Sam's heart began to race, threatening to pound a hole through his chest. With uneasy balance he stood, a rush of dizziness nearly taking him back to the ground. A dull throb began at the base of his skull and branched toward his temples like cracking glass, a spider's web of firing neurons.  
"Dean!" Sam's voice was dry, hoarse from breathing dirt for god only knows how long. He swallowed and called out his brother's name again, much louder the second time around.  
A muffled, "Sam!" reached his ears and he spun around far too quickly for his aching head. A wave of nausea hit him but he ignored it, instead starting toward the dense trees flanking the creek. He called Dean's name for the third time, hearing a few seconds later, "Sammy, where the hell are you?!" The voice, his brother's, was nearly as clear as if they were standing side by side.  
Dean was seated on the ground between the roots of a large oak with his back against the trunk. He saw a flash of Sam's jacket between the trees. "Over here."  
Sam turned a b-lined toward Dean, whose jaw was bruised and covered by a thin trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth. Dean grinned at his little brother, his teeth stained red, "Probably should have let Dad handle it."  
Sam knelt beside his brother. "What happened?"  
"You don't remember?" Dean watched the sad way Sam shook his head before giving a solumn recountal. "She was waiting when we showed up, right where I saw her the first time. I went to shoot her but she threw me back into the woods. By the time I got back up she'd gotten you face down and, I swear, I thought you were pushin' up daisies. I got to the book with the exorcism before she threw me again. No damn clue where it's at now, but I'm guessing she probably took it. I don't know, Sammy. That bitch is something we've never seen before."  
Sam took a moment before speaking. "So how'd you get back here?"  
Dean shrugged, wincing as he did. "It's kinda where I got left after she was done playing rag doll."  
"She just... left you here? I don't understand-"  
"Why we're still alive? Yeah, I'm working on that one."  
Sam sat beside his brother, glancing sidelong every few minutes. They remained in comfortable silence until the sun was high overhead and beating down on their tired and batter bodies. Sam helped Dean to his feet, keeping one arm wrapped beneath his brother's arms, and they hiked back to the Impala. Dean fell into the back, groaning as he stretched out across the seat, and Sam slid in up front. The drive back to the motel was just as quiet as their time in the woods. Though neither spoke of it, they knew they were in over their heads. And it was terrifying.

* * *

It was dark when Sam awoke, the motel room lit only by the screen of Dean's cell phone. His older brother, propped up in bed with every pillow the room had to offer, was in the midst of a soft but heated conversation. Sam feigned sleep and listened in, Dean's voice a low grow that unsettled the younger Winchester.  
"Yeah, I know it was stupid... you don't think I realize that? I'd never take Sam anywhere I didn't think he could handle... oh, and thanks for the concern. I'm fine, by the way, but thanks... yeah... yeah, okay. Fine... bye."  
Dean threw his phone across the room, cursing as a jolt of pain ran through his shoulder. He cradled his arm against his chest before laying back in his nest of pillows. "Sorry about that."  
Sam opened one eye, seeing only the faintest silhouette of his brother, before sitting up. He dangled his feet off the edge of the bed, toes grazing the floor. "Dad?"  
Dean chuckled, half-heartedly and with little humor. "He's pissed. Mostly at me, though, so don't worry your pretty little head."  
"Dean, this is serious."  
His voice grew grave, "More than you know, Sammy."

The sun rose to find the Winchester brothers laying awake, staring at the ceiling. By mid-morning they hadn't moved, and didn't until someone with a heavy hand knocked on the front door. Sam was up first - he was stiff, but Dean was damn near immobile - and opened the door to their father.  
"Dad..."  
John brought Sam under an arm, a noncommittal sort of hug, before closing the door. His face was stern, not showing even a hint of pleasure in having returned so soon, but his tone was slightly softer. "Fill me in, boys."  
Over the course of the next hour Dean recounted the two days since John had left, Sam frequently jumping in to fill in the details.  
Dean shifted his pillows and sat up against the headboard, rolling his neck until it cracked. "And that's about the time you ripped me a new one."  
John paced a hypothetical rut into the floor. "You boys have no idea what you're dealing with, do you?"  
"No, sir," Dean said, more as if toward a drill sergeant than a father.  
"Then let's keep it that way. There are things you aren't ready to know. I will handle this, and you," John's eyes flicked toward Sam, "both of you, will stay here. Do I make myself clear?"  
"Crystal."  
Sam shifted on his feet, appearing more than a little uncomfortable. "But Dad, we could help-"  
"And get thrown around like a damn football some more? No. You will stay here, you will look out for each other, and you will not bring this up again. That's an order."  
John got another, "Yes, sir," from Dean and a haughty sigh from Sam, who had never been one to respond kindly to his orders. John gave his youngest son a fatherly cuff on the shoulder before taking out his wallet and flicking one of his many credit cards at Dean's chest.  
"Treat yourself to lunch on Mr. Douglass. I'll be back before sun rise tomorrow." John walked to the door, his hand on the knob, when he turned back and looked over his shoulder, "And if I'm not, wait longer. I'll let this thing kill you both if you show up, just to teach you a lesson."  
"But-" Sam just didn't know when to quit.  
"But nothing. I've seen this before, fought it before, and killed it before. You can't even tell whether it's a demon or a spirit. Do you honestly think you'd do anything but make my job harder? Stay put, Sam. I'm not in the mood to bury my son."  
John disappeared through the door before Sam could respond. Their father's truck revved before tearing out onto the gravel road, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust behind.  
Sam turned toward his brother, "Dean, we have to help him."  
"I have to get a cheeseburger and some more beer." Dean grinned in an almost disgustingly cheerful manner. It was the kind of smile that made you want to punch someone right in the side of the head.  
"You're a jerk."  
"Bitch."

* * *

Sunrise had turned to day had turned to sun set before John returned. The left side of his face, and likely the rest of his body, was covered in road rash, droplets of blood beading along the dozens of tiny cuts. His jacket was torn, his jeans shredded in an almost fashionably deconstructed way, his shoes caked in dried mud. Despite the absolute mess of his appearance, John Winchester smiled as he walked through the door of the motel room. Both his sons were asleep, Dean appearing to not have moved from his cushy nest save the addition of a few empty beer bottles and Sam curled up on the couch, his legs hanging off the edge from the knees down. He eased the door shut, slowly turning the locks into place until nearly inaudible clicks sounded. John grabbed a change of clothes and headed into the bathroom, a hot shower the only thing on his mind.  
By the time he emerged, a faint billow of steam following him out the door, John was facing two sets of bright eyes. He shot both his sons a small grin, tight lipped and hardly joyous, before digging a beer from the fridge and popping the cap off. He downed half the bottle in a single go.  
"Dad. Where have you been? You look like hell." Sam spoke first, his words undercut with curt jabs that would have inspired guilt in all but the most heartless of men. John happened to be one of those men.  
"Working." He took another drink of the cheap swill with far too much hops.  
"Yeah, but what took so long? What happened?"  
"Don't worry about it, Sam. It's done and over with."  
Dean rolled his legs off the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "You're okay though, right?"  
"Never better, boys. Now get back to bed. I've got to leave for Missouri first thing in the morning, so no more questions. Your old man needs some rest."


End file.
